Fact Versus Feeling
by Benny The Crazed Cartoonist
Summary: Missing scene from Cars 2; Sarge suspects Allinol isn't what Axelrod has made it out to be, and Fillmore proves useful in helping to confirm a theory. Explores the night they switch out McQueen's Allinol with Fillmore's own brew.


**This is the stuff I write now, apparently. **

**The idea for this has been bouncing around my head for the past year or so, and I finally got it onto a word document so I can put it to rest. Edited in my usual half-effort style. **

**On with the show. **

* * *

It wasn't difficult to sneak out of the Topolino household this late in the evening. Everyone who hadn't gone to bed early to prepare for the next day's race soon passed out in a high-grade-oil induced stupor, anticipation and celebration ensuring an uproarious evening. The Topolino family was more than happy to break out their special reserves, and everyone had indulged until jet lag and intoxication finally found them snoozing in their rooms.

Save for Sarge.

He had allowed himself to indulge, for sure, but the heavy drinking he left to the young'uns, and he'd spent too much time traveling with the army to be affected by jet lag anymore. Besides, he was on a mission tonight.

Running as quietly as an old army engine could, Sarge rolled out of the Topolino household and into the cool, moonlit night. The sounds of Italy, those younger and not so jet lagged, rose into the night on wings of hearty laughter and the revs of more sports-like cars showing off their torque. Good. One plain, dirty jeep wouldn't draw any stares next to the sleek, elite models, which would make his mission that much easier. The less attention, the better.

He glanced around the courtyard, taking a moment to enjoy the serenity of an active night in a coastal city. The sound of the fountain playing rose, mixing seamlessly into the noise of the evening. Cobblestones under tire gave a rustic sensation, reminding Sarge of simpler times as he started towards the street. He could get used to being here, for sure. Army travel, while it had its uses, didn't leave much time for sightseeing.

Not that sightseeing was his mission tonight, but he couldn't deny the overwhelming sense of peace that settled over his chassis. Just him and the world.

"You're up late."

Sarge screeched to a halt, barely managing to keep his eye from twitching. So much for being alone. He pulled a sharp u-turn, finally noticing the van parked half in shadow. Fillmore watched him with lidded eyes and an easy grin that had just enough amusement in it to make Sarge's engine burn. He let out a sharp sound between a scoff and a choke, trying to cool his systems. "So are you. Shouldn't you be meditating or something?"

Fillmore angled out his front tires in a nonchalant shrug. "Nowhere better to meditate than out in the open air, man." He rolled forward out of the shadows, keeping his own engine noise low. "Where were you headed on such a groovy evening?"

Sarge turned away, heading back towards the street. "Nowhere." Maybe Fillmore would have the decency to leave him alone tonight.

Crunching stones by his side indicated he wasn't so lucky as Fillmore kept pace, almost scraping the sides of the narrow alley as they headed down the hill. Their way was lit by oil lanterns burning merrily, enough to keep the gloom away but not enough to be blinding. It would have been lovely if the silence wasn't constantly broken by Fillmore's incessant questioning.

"There are better times to go sightseeing, Sarge."

"You don't have to come with me."

A light laugh, and Sarge barely resisted glancing into his side-view. The only thing he'd see would be Fillmore's gentle grin and honestly he wasn't sure how much of that he could take. "You'd be lonely without me, man, admit it."

"I'd certainly be more productive without you."

"Productive?" A hint of contemplation lined Fillmore's voice. Typical of the bus, he never did anything all the way, with hints of this and traces of that. Couldn't even commit to an emotion. Well, maybe he wasn't being fair with that assumption. Fillmore could throw himself headfirst into things he strongly believed. Maybe Sarge lashed out so quickly at him tonight because he needed to focus and Fillmore's presence made that very difficult.

Through this revelation, Fillmore continued talking. "You're out here for something specific then?" A serious dip in his inflection that actually did cause Sarge to glance into his mirrors. "Sarge, are you having dreams again?"

Uh oh. Switch conversation away from that. He scoffed in what he hoped sounded like dismissal. "Don't be ridiculous." As it seemed he wouldn't get Fillmore to leave, especially now that the dreams idea was in his head, Sarge figured he may as well tell the truth. "I'm heading down to the pits at the racetrack."

A pause. "Why?"

Sarge glanced away from Fillmore, turning into a more popular street. Groups of cars sat around tables in tiny cafes, laughing and drinking and paying no mind to a couple of old American models. Now that the wider road allowed it, Fillmore came up directly on Sarge's left, staring at him probingly as they rumbled down the hill towards the waterline.

Sarge thought out his answer, wording it and rewording it in his head, trying to phrase it so he didn't sound like a paranoid madman. It never really worked. Gah, he was awful with words. "I don't trust that Axelrod fellow. Something about him grinds my gears."

An understanding hum from Fillmore. "He does give off some pretty conflicting vibes, man, so I see where you're coming from, but any advocate for alternative fuel is alright in my books. What are your feelings on him?"

"I'm looking at the facts. He had a fortune in fossil fuel, and no car in this day and age would give that up to fund alternative fuel research."

They paused at a red light, but the cross-street was deserted, the sounds of the evening fading the farther down the hill they drove. Eerie silence stretched on before them. "You heard his jungle story, though, right? Time in nature changes people, I'm telling you."

The light turned green and they continued. "Big oil doesn't change, not for that. Oil billionaires don't care about nature that much. It just doesn't make any sense. Any why is his first reaction to reveal Allinol in a very expensive worldwide race? None of his movements are logical, but everyone is so caught up in his charm that they don't question it."

He could practically _feel_ Fillmore light up next to him. "You think there might be a conspiracy here?"

He barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Maybe not that sinister, but something about this whole shebang is definitely off. My fenders have been itching ever since that first explosion in Japan and I don't like it." He finished his thought with a definitive huff.

The two of them turned off the main road and headed into the empty racing grounds. Tomorrow the space would be filled with cheering fans and excited racers, but now the vacancy of the stands just felt wrong, much like the first few weeks after Radiator Springs was bypassed. A place that was supposed to be full of cars, just dead. It made his chassis crawl.

"What are you going to do about it?" Fillmore's voice took a hushed quality, as though the crushing silence of the empty grounds suppressed his words.

"I want to check the Allinol tanks."

"What do you hope to find?"

In all honesty, Sarge had no clue. All he knew was something felt wrong, and he followed his instincts. The only response he gave was, "answers."

That seemed to satisfy Fillmore well enough, because he lapsed into silence. They crossed into the pit area, meeting a surprising lack of resistance. Sarge had at least expected security or cameras or some such, but no alarms blared and no one rushed to stop them as they passed into Lightning's pit. Fillmore hit the light and the nook filled with a fluorescent glow.

A few screens sat embedded in the wall next to a pile of racing quality tires. Hooks for headsets. Complimentary high-grade. Fillmore's stack of organically brewed fuel he insisted on bringing with him (Sarge again barely resisted an eye roll. All they did was take up space). And there, by the door, the Allinol tank.

Sarge set a canister underneath the nozzle and allowed a few gulps of Allinol to trickle down. Tomorrow Lightning would take the fuel intravenously, but Sarge figured they didn't need that much right now so orally would do. He pulled from the canister, swishing it around a little. It didn't taste any different than regular fuel, and he couldn't help but feel a little foolish. There he was, an old military bum, always looking for connections where none existed. He pushed the canister away. "It tastes normal."

Fillmore gave him a curious glance, then took a bit of fuel into his own mouth. Almost immediately, he spat it out. Sarge reversed sharply with a startled noise.

"Normal is right, man," Fillmore all but snarled in the canister's direction. "That's not anything like alternative fuel."

Sarge's stare passed back and forth between Fillmore and the canister. "What... what do you mean?"

"I'm saying you're right, this tastes normal. Like, normal gas. The only thing alternative about this is the name."

Sarge came forward and took another sip. Again, nothing unusual. "How can you be so sure?"

Wrong question to ask. Fillmore's face fell into the expression he usually wore right before going on a conspiracy rant. "I have a lot of deep, personal experience with alternative fuels. There's something about them that warms the soul, from the bottom of your treads to the tip of your antenna, an essence that encompasses your entire being. This," again, he regarded the canister viciously, "drains the life from you more than it gives. It's toxic, man, I'm telling you."

Sarge shut his eyes and counted very slowly to ten before opening them again. "That all seems very... interesting, but we need facts to prove this theory."

"How about all those other racers blowing up?"

"That's not proof."

Fillmore's face took on a quality graver than Sarge had ever seen. "Sarge, man, I know you're all about that facts business, but this is McQueen's _life_ we're bargaining with here. If we look at the facts? Racers have blown engines, and this isn't like any alternative fuel I've ever encountered. Is that a risk you're willing to take? You had weird vibes about this. Would you barter his life because you denied your own instincts?" He inched forward with every point made until he was a hairs breadth from Sarge. He couldn't find it in himself to back away from Fillmore's intense stare.

Finally Sarge let out a breath. "You're right. My instincts have never failed me before."

A grin pulled at Fillmore's mouth. "And my sense of taste."

"Sure, you helped too, what do you want, a medal?"

A quiet chuckle before the weight of the situation dropped over them again. "So what do you think we should do?"

As much as instinct was proving correct right now, they couldn't go public without facts. Best to remedy this situation quietly. Even if nothing came of it tomorrow, at least Lightning would race safely. "Get rid of that," Sarge indicated to the Allinol tank. Something about it seemed more ominous now than it did before, almost looming above them.

"McQueen needs something to race on."

Sarge glanced around, up and down the line of pit stops. Allinol logos glared at him from every angle. He turned, racking his brain for a solution. Fillmore, for his part, stayed respectfully silent.

_Fillmore._

Sarge's eyes landed on the stacks of organic fuel canisters brewed right in his neighbour's yard. The once useless pile now glinted like the most precious gold, fluorescent lighting seeming to land on the cans in the way a deliberate spotlight might.

Sarge smiled.

"Come help me with these, hippie, we have some work to do."

_**END**_


End file.
